Exquisite Justice

by Dennis Carstens

  When the shots were fired, the crowd panicked and ran. Charlie Dudek joined them. In the two to three seconds after the shots were fired and the stampede began, Charlie was able to tuck the gun away in his back waistband. Getting out of the area was easy.

  Charlie had rented a car using a fake license and credit card. Knowing ahead of time where he would try to set up the cop, he parked it two blocks away. It was less than two minutes after the shooting when Charlie was in the car and on the street driving out of downtown. Because of rush hour traffic, it was more than an hour later when he pulled into the motel.

  Ever the cautious, careful professional, after removing the disguise and a quick shower, the last thing he did was wipe down the room for prints. The shooting occurred shortly after 4:30 and Charlie was heading south on I-35 by 6:15. The only disappointment came because he had not found time to see Maddy Rivers.

  Damone Watson, along with Lewis and Monroe, was watching Damone’s office TV. Every local station was running the story about Ferguson. Damone flipped channels and silently watched in amazement. The professional had pulled it off. He had suckered a cop into shooting Damone’s number one pain-in-the-ass.

  “I don’t get it, boss,” Monroe said. “I thought you wanted things to calm down. How does this help us?”

  “Mikal Tate was a good shooting. The city will throw some money at it and it will go away. This will give the cops and the media something to do. Take their attention away from our business. Then there’s the fat dearly departed Reverend Ferguson.”

  “Oh man, look at that shit,” Lewis said.

  A young black man had sucker punched a female reporter while she was on camera. The young woman dropped like a rock, clearly unconscious. The cameraman continued to film while the assailant celebrated with several of his friends.

  An angry Damone stood up behind his desk, pointed a finger at the TV and said, “I want them. All five of them. Get out there, find them and bring them to me. That is not what is needed right now. Whatever sympathy we had for the community is now gone!”

  “We have a meeting with the Muslims in an hour, boss,” Lewis said.

  A calmer Damone looked at him, nodded and said, “Thank you, Lewis, for reminding me. All right,” he continued looking at Monroe, “You go find them. You know who to go to. These young fools will be bragging about putting this girl in the hospital. Idiots. Get them here tonight.” Damone reached in a desk drawer and came out holding a rubber band wrapped bundle of money. He tossed it to Monroe and said, “Here. Pay whatever you have to, spread it around and find them.”

  “You got it.”

  Lewis parked the Tahoe behind a Muslim bakery near Cedar/Riverside. The bakery was one of the dozens of small businesses in the Somali community forced to do the bidding of Damone and his Muslim allies but paid well for their services. Before Damone was out of the SUV, his man, Saadaq Khalid, was out the back door to greet him.

  “What is it?” Damone asked Saadaq after the traditional greetings.

  “Sadia is getting greedy. He wants an increase in supply and a larger piece for himself personally. His head is getting larger every day. He acts as if everything is run by him.”

  “And what is he doing with the money he receives now?” Damone asked.

  “I don’t know,” Saadaq admitted.

  “Make that your priority. Find out. Why does a holy man need more Earthly possessions? It could be useful. Now, let’s go see the Imam,” Damone said.

  “Our supplies run out too fast,” Ahmad Gurey complained to Damone. Gurey was the Imam’s man who handled the drug business on his behalf. Imam Sadiq was in attendance but chose not to speak. He did not entirely trust anyone, especially Damone.

  “They’re supposed to,” Damone said.

  “Increase the supply,” Gurey said loud enough to make it sound like a demand.

  “Watch your tone,” Saadaq told him.

  “Apologies,” a chastened Gurey said. Gurey looked at the Imam who stared back. The Imam obviously disapproved of Gurey, his man, backing down so easily.

  “Raise the price,” Damone said.

  “We just did, a month ago,” Gurey said immediately realizing his mistake.

  “Did you know about this?” Damone asked Saadaq.

  “No, I did not,” a fierce-looking Saadaq answered while glaring at Gurey.

  “This was your idea?” Damone said looking at the Imam.

  Realizing he had pushed a little too far, Imam Sadia meekly nodded and shrugged his shoulders.

  “I see. Well then, this meeting is over. I will not agree to either an increase in supply or price,” Damone flatly stated, re-establishing his authority. “I will send the accountant to you to go over your revenue. You will cooperate with him.”

  He turned to leave, then said to Saadaq, “Find out exactly what they did.”

  “Yes, sir,” Saadaq replied.

  “I should have your bodies buried where they will never be found. What were you thinking?”

  Damone was talking to the five young men who were involved in the assault on the female reporter. The one who had struck the woman, Rodney Stone, was standing in the middle of the group. All five were lined up against a wall in Damone’s conference room.

  Damone was sitting on the edge of the conference room table. Lewis and Monroe patiently waited in opposite corners of the room. When none of the five terrified young men responded to Damone’s question, he stood up and moved to Rodney. He leaned down so his nose was less than an inch from Rodney’s.

  “Well?!” Damone bellowed.

  “I, ah, we just, I guess, got caught up, you know, in the excitement,” Rodney stammered.

  Damone flashed his right hand at Rodney’s face and slapped him as hard as he could. His head snapped back and hit the wall. Blood began seeping into his mouth from the loosened teeth and his knees began to buckle.

  Damone looked them over slowly, staring back and forth for a full minute.

  “I slapped you like the bitch you are because you aren’t man enough to be punched. Sneak up on a woman and hit her when she isn’t looking? That is disgusting cowardice. And then dance around like fools to celebrate it? And you expect to be treated with respect?!”

  He stared at them again for another thirty seconds. Damone leaned forward again nose-to-nose with Rodney.

  “If you’re thinking about getting even with me, to come after me to earn respect, you will die a painful death––all of you. Then I will go after your families. Speak of this to no one. Now get out.”

  Twenty

  The funeral for Reverend Ferguson turned into a riot. The service was held at Ferguson’s church, North Memorial Baptist. It was presided over by the last person that should have been chosen. A minister from Chicago, a fire-breather, more anxious to stir up racial animosity than Ferguson, had flown in. It would have been far better for the black community to bring in someone less controversial. Instead, this man, Reverend Cleveland Hawkins, was invited to perform. Unknown to the church board that brought him in—for a healthy fee—was the irony of that selection. The Reverends Ferguson and Hawkins were well acquainted with each other. Hawkins was getting rich hustling Chicago. Ferguson had tried to get a piece of the Chicago action and was driven out by Hawkins. There was no love lost between them.

  Hawkins was also well known as a man who did everything he could to stir up racial animosity. He was living quite well from the proceeds. Not surprisingly, the funeral service had little to do with the dearly departed Ferguson. Hawkins spent an hour at the pulpit raging against police racism and white injustice.

  Because the church was filled to capacity loudspeakers were set up outside. A crowd of at least two thousand were listening outside the church. By the time Hawkins, an excellent orator, finished, the worshippers were seething.

  The chaos started when the service was over––the six men seated in front as pallbearers wheeled the casket out front. A hearse was waiting, and the funeral procession was starting to form. Unfo
rtunately, when the mob saw the casket, a couple hundred surged forward to get it.

  Three of the pallbearers were knocked down and almost trampled. The others fled for their lives. The coffin, with its cargo aboard, had to weigh well over four hundred pounds, was hoisted up and carried off. For the next three hours, the coffin was passed around and held aloft by the mourners. They paraded it around the North Minneapolis neighborhood—it was almost dropped at least a dozen times—until Reverend Hawkins got to the front. Along with a couple of local thugs brought in as bodyguards, they led the mob to Parkland Cemetery.

  They got the casket to the burial site and the crowd calmed down enough to hear the graveside service. Once that was finished, a couple of hundred of the mourners, a small percentage, rampaged through the streets.

  While 90% of the people who attended the funeral ducked for cover, this out-of-control bunch ran wild. They set cars on fire, looted stores, burned others down in a night of mayhem––the worst since the 60s. And the police, by order of the mayor, backed by the city council, were told to stand down and made spectators of the carnage. Of course, they were allowed to protect themselves and others. Most of the cops interpreted this exception rather liberally. By morning, there were over a hundred arrests on various charges of assault.

  Fortunately, after midnight, a cold front moved in which brought a steady day of rain. Between the rain and the courage of the firefighters and police, the fires were put out and order was restored.

  The cost became clear right away. In the rubble of the burned-out buildings, the bodies of seven people, including three children, were found. Most of them were Asian Americans trying to protect their property. Autopsies would prove five died from gunshot wounds. Despite their best efforts, the police were unable to charge anyone with any of the killings. The entire community was too intimidated to say who had done what.

  Damone was in his apartment dressed in a beautiful, blue silk robe. He was with Lewis and Monroe and they were watching the news on various channels. It was 10:00 A.M. of the morning following the riot. Damone had expected a violent reaction—in fact, he welcomed it—but this was more than he wanted. He had no interest in black people killing yellow people. He was quite upset with that, especially the four children.

  “They’re mostly Koreans,” Lewis reminded him. “They move in, run their businesses, but don’t hire our brothers.”

  “They move in, work eighteen-hour days along with their families to build a business to become successful. It’s a lesson our brothers, as you call them, should learn,” Damone replied. “Well, it serves our purpose. The attention of the authorities will be elsewhere for months.”

  Damone placed his empty China cup on its saucer on the coffee table then stood up.

  “Time to go,” he said. “We have meetings to attend.”

  Lewis’ phone rang. He checked the caller ID and held up an index finger, indicating to Damone to wait a moment while Lewis took the call.

  “Yes, he’s here. Just a moment,” Lewis said into the phone. He covered the mouthpiece and said, “It’s the mayor’s office. They have an announcement to make and they want you to attend.”

  “About what?” Damone asked.

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Probably announcing the cop has been indicted,” Damone quietly said, “What time?”

  “Eleven.”

  “Tell her I’ll be there.”

  * * *

  “Thank you for coming,” Mayor Fogel announced. “I’m letting you know what has happened and then we’ll all go in the media room for a brief press announcement.”

  In the mayor’s conference room, besides Damone, were six other leaders of the African American community. All of them had guessed the meeting was about an indictment of Reverend Ferguson’s killer, Officer Robert Dane. By the extremely pleased look on Fogel’s face, they could see they were correct.

  Technically this should be an announcement from the office of the Hennepin County Attorney. All felony prosecutions for the county are handled by her office. Fogel insisted on making the announcement here and at the press briefing. He needed to do something after last night’s mayhem. Something to show the city government was still functioning.

  The only other official in the room was the County Attorney herself, Felicia Jones. Noticeably absent, because they were not invited, was Jalen Bryant and any other members of the city council. Fogel had no intention of sharing this spotlight.

  “I’ll get right to it,” Fogel said. “The investigation of the shooting death of the Reverend Lionel Ferguson has been completed. The investigation turned up no exculpatory evidence to exonerate Officer Robert Dane. The case was submitted to the grand jury who returned a three-count indictment—one count each of first and second-degree murder and first-degree manslaughter.

  “Comments, questions?” Fogel asked looking over his audience.

  “Are you going to go all the way with this or are you going to make a plea deal that lets him off easy?” one of the men asked, a minister from a South Minneapolis church.

  Knowing this was not his place, Fogel stepped aside and Felicia Jones took the question.

  “No, we are not going to make a deal,” she emphatically said. “Unless, of course, more evidence turns up that we are not presently aware of.”

  “There it is, the weasel words,” a different invitee said.

  An annoyed Felicia Jones glared at the man and said, “We cannot know what will turn up. It is our intention to have this cop’s balls. Good enough?”

  No one in the room said a word.

  Marc arrived at the office to find no one working. Everyone, including Connie and the other two lawyers, was seated in the common area watching the television.

  “Where have you been?” Barry Cline asked him.

  “Court,” Marc replied looking at the TV.

  “Downtown?” Barry asked. “You didn’t go…”

  “No,” Marc replied. “Hastings,” he said referring to a suburban Dakota County city. “What’s going on?”

  “They just announced the indictment of that cop who shot Ferguson,” Connie Mickelson said.

  Barry and Marc looked at each with an uneasy look in their eyes. Then Barry said, “Word on the street, and from the courthouse and cops, is they should be thanking this guy.”

  “What?” Connie asked. “He shot him down…”

  “Lionel Ferguson was no choir boy,” Marc said. “Cops claim he was making a nice living shaking down drug dealers and other street-side, urban entrepreneurs. What did they indict him for?”

  “Three counts,” Connie replied. “One each first and second-degree and first-degree manslaughter.”

  “Who’s his lawyer?” Chris Grafton, the fourth lawyer in the office, asked.

  “Don’t know,” Marc replied. “The cop union will probably provide him with one.”

  “Would either of you take it?” Grafton asked Marc and Barry.

  They looked at each other, then Marc said, “I don’t think so. That’s a lot of heat coming from this one.”

  “Would be a challenge,” Barry said.

  “True. But I don’t know. Besides, I haven’t been asked. He’ll get a lawyer or two through the union.”

  While the press conference announcing the indictment was taking place, five police officers, two in uniform and three in plain clothes, drove up to Rob Dane’s home. They arrived in two cars, one a squad car, and parked in the driveway. They were led by a tall, black man: Lt. Owen Jefferson of the homicide division. Before they reached the door, Rob was there to let them in.

  “I watched it on TV,” Rob said when they were all in the living room.

  “Where are Leah and the kids?” Jefferson asked.

  “Her parents’ place up North,” Rob said. “I just got off the phone with her when you guys drove up.”

  “Good, I’m glad they’re okay,” Jefferson said. “Well,” he sighed, “let’s get on with it. Marcie?”

  Marcie Sterling, a h
omicide detective, stepped forward and said, “Robert John Dane, I am placing you under arrest for the murder of Lionel Ferguson. You have the right to remain silent, anything…” she continued until she was done reading him his rights. When she finished, she asked if he understood them. He answered affirmatively.

  The phone rang and the male detective, Donnell Green, answered it.

  “It’s his lawyer, Arturo Mendoza,” Green told Jefferson.

  “Let him talk to him,” Jefferson said.

  In less than a minute, the phone call was finished.

  Rob said, “He’ll meet us downtown.”

  “Okay, let’s go,” Marcie said. She turned to one of the uniforms and nodded. He removed a pair of handcuffs from his belt and stepped behind Rob.

  “In front,” Jefferson told the uniformed cop indicating that he should cuff his hands in front. “Go easy. Rob, we have a warrant to search the house, garage and your car. Do you want a copy for your lawyer?”

  “Sure,” he said.

  Green peeled off a carbon of the search warrant, showed it to Rob then folded it neatly and placed it in Rob’s shirt pocket.

  “I’m really sorry about this, Rob,” Jefferson said.

  “There was a gun, Lieutenant. Someone must have seen it. Please keep looking.”

  “We will,” Marcie assured him.

  Twenty-One

  “That’s a little odd,” Maddy said as she re-entered Marc’s bedroom.

  “What’s a little odd, babe?” Marc asked.

  It was almost 7:30 A.M. and Maddy was already dressed and ready to go. Marc was struggling with his tie.

  “Here, let me help you,” Maddy said.

  Marc dropped his arms to his side, lifted his chin and while Maddy was fixing the tie, said, “Why do women like to do this?”

  “It’s very flirtatious,” Maddy replied. “And a come-on. Let’s you know we’re very interested because we want to touch you. But in your case, there you go,” she said as she finished, “you need the help.”